What should a Poet do? 'Tis hard for one
To pleasure all the fools that would be shown:
And yet not two in ten will pass the town.
Most coxcombs are not of the laughing kind;
More goes to make a fop, than fops can find.
Quack Maurus, though he never took degrees
In either of our universities;
Yet to be shown by some kind wit he looks,
Because he play'd the fool and writ three books.
But, if he would be worth a Poet's pen,
He must be more a fool, and write again :
For all the former fuftian stuff he wrote,
Was dead-born doggrel, or is quite forgot;
His man of Uz, ftript of his Hebrew robe,
Is just the proverb, and As poor as Job.
One would have thought he could no longer jog;
But Arthur was a level, Job's a bog.
There, though he crept, yet ftill he kept in fight;
But here, he founders in, and finks downright.
Had he prepar'd us, and been dull by rule,
Tobit had first been turn'd to ridicule :
But our bold Briton, without fear or awe,
O'er-leaps at once the whole Apocrypha;
Invades the Pfalms with rhymes, and leaves no room
For any Vandal Hopkins yet to come.
But when, if, after all, this godly geer
Is not fo fenfelefs as it would appear;
Our mountebank has laid a deeper train,
His cant, like Merry Andrew's noble vein,
Cat-calls the fects to draw them in again.
At leifure hours, in epic fong he deals,
Writes to the rumbling of his coach's wheels,
Preferibes in hafte, and feldom kills by rule,
But rides triumphant between stool and stool.
Well, let him go; 'tis yet too early day,
To get himself a place in farce or play.
We knew not by what name we should arraign him.
For no one category can contain him;
A pedant, canting preacher, and a quack,
Are load enough to break one afs's back :
At last grown wanton, he prefum’d to write,
Traduc'd two kings, their kindness to requite;
One made the doctor, and one dubb'd the knight.
EPILOGUE to the PILGRIM.
PERHAPS the Parfon stretch'd a point too far,
When with our Theatres he wag'd a war.
He tells you, that this very moral age
Receiv'd the first infection from the ftage.
But fure, a banifh'd court, with lewdnefs fraught,
The feeds of open vice, returning, brought.
Thus lodg'd (as vice by great example thrives)
It first debauch'd the daughters and the wives.
London, a fruitful foil, yet never bore
So plentiful a crop of horns before.
The Poets, who must live by courts, or starve,
Were proud, fo good a government to ferve;
And, mixing with buffoons and pimps prophane,
Tainted the Stage, for some small snip of gain.
For they, like harlots, under bawds profest,
Took all th' ungodly pains, and got the least.
Thus did the thriving malady prevail,
The court its head, the Poets but the tail.
The fin was of our native growth, 'tis true;
The fcandal of the fin was wholly new.
Miffes they were, but modeftly conceal'd;
White-hall the naked Venus first reveal'd.
Who standing as at Cyprus, in her shrine,
The ftrumpet was ador'd with rites divine.
Ere this, if faints had any fecret motion,
Twas chamber-practice all, and close devotion.
I pafs the peccadillos of their time;
Nothing but open lewdnefs was a crime.
A monarch's blood was venial to the nation,
Compar'd with one foul act of fornication.
Now, they would filence us, and fhut the door,
That let in all the bare-fac'd vice before.
As for reforming us, which fome pretend,
That work in England is without an end :
Well may we change, but we shall never mend.
Yet, if you can but bear the present Stage,
We hope much better of the coming age.
What would you fay, if we fhould first begin
To ftop the trade of love behind the scene:
Where a treffes make bold with married men?
For while abroad fo prodigal the dolt is,
Poor fpoufe at home as ragged as a colt is.
In short, we'll grow as moral as we can,
Save here and there a woman or a man:
But neither you, nor we, with all our pains,
Can make clean work; there will be fome remains,
While you have still your Oats, and we our Hains.
EPIGRAM,
On the Dutchefs of PORTSMOUTH's Picture.
URE we do live by Cleopatra's age,
Since Sunderland does govern now the stage:
She of Septimius had nothing made,
Pompey alone had been by her betray'd.
Were fhe a poet, fhe would furely boast,
That all the world for pearls had well been loft.
EPITAPH.
Intended for Mr. DRYDEN'S Wife.
HERE lies my wife: here let her lie!
Now he's at reft, and fo am I.
DESCRIPTION of old JACOB TONSON*.
ITH leering look, bull-fac'd, and freckled fair, With two left-legs, with Judas-colour'd hair, And frowzy pores that taint the ambient air.—
* On Tonfon's refufing to give Dryden the price he afked for his Virgil, the Poet fent him the above; and added, "Tell the dog, that he who wrote them, can "write more." The money was paid.
To the unknown AUTHOR of ABSALOM and ACHITOPHEL.
AKE it as earnest of a faith renew'd,
Your theme is vaft, your verse divinely good :
Where, though the Nine their beautecus ftrokes repeat,
And the turn'd lines on golden anvils beat,
It looks as if they strook them at a heat.
So all ferenely great, fo juft refin'd,
Like angels love to human feed inclin'd,
It starts a giant, and exalts the kind.
'Tis spirit seen, whofe fiery atoms roll,
So brightly fierce, each fyllable 's a soul.
'Tis miniature of man, but he's all heart;
'Tis what the world would be, but wants the art;
To whom ev'n the fanaticks altars raife,
Bow in their own defpite, and grin your praise;
As if a Milton from the dead arofe,
Fil'd off the ruft, and the right party chofe.
Nor, Sir, be fhock'd at what the gloomy fay;
Turn not your feet too inward, nor too splay.
'Tis gracious all, and great: Push on your theme;
Lean your griev'd head on David's diadem.
David, that rebel Ifrael's envy mov'd;
David, by God and all good men belov'd.
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